Some Dreams are Made of Unrelenting Memories
by Weathered War
Summary: Everyone has a past and some do not have to be brought upon by teeth. No, some memories can be drawn up by a simple dream; or nightmare. Old fears can be dug up, and others cleansed. Still, Jack isn't sure how he got here or where exactly he is. Heck, who is this army guy, anyway? Looks a bit like Pitch. (Highly volatile experiment for author. Not Slash.)
1. Rude Awakenings, Strange Meetings

Jack usually doesn't black out. And when he does, there's usually a good reason behind it. Whether it was because he was caught off guard by the kangaroo or he had spent a bit too long where the sun didn't want him, Jack could usually pinpoint and sort out his reasons. But admittedly right now, his mind felt like it was submerged in turbulent waters.

Squinting and bleary eyes took in the blurred landscape with a greedy, delusional fervor that struggled after lucidity. A pained groan sliced through the air as he sat up with a hand nursing his throbbing head. Jack's face scrunched up in confusion at the chaotic arrangement of bramble and thick forest greenery that surrounded him.

His lethargic hands groped the earth underneath them and discovered the alabaster patch of snow that had softened his fall. He smiled at its familiar texture and sighed, relieved, when he spotted his familiar staff beside him. He picked it up with a loose grin. Wherever Jack was, he still had his powers and that was enough to comfort him.

His eyes screwed shut. As comforting as the knowledge of still possessing his abilities was, it did little to alleviate the torment that laced his poor head. The darkness provided a minute anesthetic. Damn, where exactly was he? Last he remembered was a sinuous chuckle that had echoed everywhere around him. Pitch. He had been defeated, right? But the nightmares—one of them—it had-

A twig crackled behind him.

Jack snapped his body around and readied his staff at the source that had produced the noise and, to his growing dread, found a figure clad in a cloak of shadows that the surrounding buffer of trees endowed out of spiteful retaliation to the moon's hard light. The tense silhouetted shoulders gave way the fact that Jack was not the only one who had been startled.

Jack's face twisted hard, eyebrows furrowed and bright eyes glinting sharp. His harsh expression dropped, however, and his expectations fluttered short as the sleek figure quickly rose its hands, which Jack noted, to his surprise, was embraced by white shirt cuffs where a golden design flourished. In place of the gaunt, malicious face that he had expected was a face of healthy pink coloration partnered with curious, wary eyes that measured Jack's taut form.

As the man further stepped out into the sallow light with palms up in a surrendering position, Jack could pick out the intricate lines of the man's garb. Jack immediately recognized it as military—although, it was strange. He hadn't seen that kind of uniform anywhere before.

It did, however, hold a slight trace of a resemblance to one of North's older outfits that Jack had come across when he had been snooping in bulky guardian's office. He vaguely recalled a proud grin on the North's face when he patted the glass that encased it. "From when my hair wasn't so white!" he had boasted. Jack had snorted at the idea back then. North. Young? Yeah right.

Jack's gaze fell back up to the man's face. He kind of looked familiar. Blue eyes narrowed, provoking a sharpening affect in the worry that glinted in the other party. He couldn't exactly place his fingers on it; something was off... missing.

But...

"You can see me?"  
"Are you alright, lad?"

The way the words punctuated the air with acute pronunciation, it was-English, Jack recognized. Did he land in the United Kingdom? He frowned. Weird. Nothing looked too terribly familiar.

The man chuckled. It was a pleasant sound, warm and kind. It threaded a sedative through Jack's knotted muscles. It reminded him greatly of a parent's laugh—he hadn't heard one directed at him from a human adult for a long time. 300 years give or take.

"My, lad. I can see you quite fine." The soldier grinned. But it didn't last. It cracked and faltered into a troubled grimace. He strode over to Jack in two quick steps and picked him up by the arm. His voice dipped down into a solemn tone, nipped at only by the accent that dusted over his words. "But you shouldn't be out here this late. It's dangerous."

Once on his feet, Jack pulled his arm away from the man's grip, not bothering to brush off the stubborn snow that clung onto his hoodie. "Nah, I'm fine." He flicked his wrist in dismissal and adjusted his weight to lean against his staff. "I can take care of myself," He said confidently, "I've been on my own much longer than you'd think."

However, he couldn't shake off the fact that the man looked familiar. But this was more or less overtaken by the crashing waves of disbelief that an adult could see him. Who still believed in 'myths and legends' at this age? He scrutinized the man once more, but the answers were undeterred and refused to dislodge and reveal themselves. He didn't really look like the kinda guy who was still a kid at heart. Looked more like a parent, than anything. Not too old nor too young.

"I don't doubt your credibility," He replied softly. Many homes have been plundered in the war he had been fighting. Subtle debonair is laced between the gentleness, but the next sentence is firm and warmed with urgency. "But I insist that you provide this soldier a good rest of mind by allowing me to escort you back to your home."

"Stranger danger," Jack jested incredulously.

"Ah, my apologies," The adult returned, his sincerity almost defacing Jack's good humor. The skin that surrounded his eyes crinkle with the patient smile that indulged in Jack's mischief. But the irises do not necessarily follow the mirth. They are lined and tinged with worry. Even his posture remained stiff. "I am General Kozmotis Pitchiner."

Heck, even the name sounded familiar. And a General? Jack would have been impressed if it wasn't for the fact that he didn't take interest into military and war. Seemed more like North's thing. Regardless, he sounded important and the General already introduced himself. He might as well return the favor.

"My name..." Jack begun hesitantly. He stopped and ran his unoccupied hand through his disorderly hair. "Well, I guess the better question is: Do you believe in Jack Frost?"

The soldier doesn't reply at first. Jack didn't blame him-the question _did_ come out of nowhere.

"I'm afraid I don't know what that is." Was the eventual, apologetic reply, and Jack's confusion and curiosity flared. Then how could he be seen? Especially by an adult who didn't even know_what _he was? Before Jack could offer an explanation or even speak up, Kozmotis shook his head and intervened.

"Come now, where do you live? The fearlings were reported to be approaching this city yesterday. It's not safe."

Jack's eyes skimmed the thick forest surrounding them once more and hazarded a glimpse back up into the sky again. None of the constellations looked familiar nor did the earthy terrain from all the world he had seen. It was _definitely_ not England. "Well, truth to be told, I'm kind of lost." He admitted. However, at the term 'fearlings', Jack's eyes, narrowed, snapped back onto the General. How did this guy-?

"And I told you, I can take care of myself." He bit his lower lip, shifting his weight away from his staff. This was bad. If Pitch was back already—how long had he been out? Where were the rest of the guardians? Involuntarily, Jack's gaze drawls up to the moon. The usual comforting presence wasn't as strong as it usually was, and the shifting shadows seemed unmistakeably tangible now that he looked at his surroundings twice.

Kozmotis's gaze followed Jack's, oblivious to the conflict. "Lovely, isn't it?" He muttered. His hand absentmindedly wandered over to a pocket stitched onto his tunic's side. If one had observed closely, a golden glint could have been seen peering out.

He shook his head once again and released a sigh which manifested into cloudy wisps thatidly oozedfrom between his chapped lips.

"And as I've said, I do not doubt your ability." He smiled, another chuckle creeping into his voice, "But I would rather avoid any misshapen kidnappings tonight."

Although he had been able to follow the young man's humor so far, Kozmotis was truly haggard. Nightly patrols weren't necessarily his favorite to take up. Honestly, when he had first felt the presence in the forest clearing, he had been ready to draw his halberd in pure paranoia to slay whatever laid beneath the underbrush had it not been for the striking glimmer of silver hair.

Ever since the ominous telegraph reporting fearling sighting had come through, it seemed as though the town that had once bustled in both light and night life had been quashed and fell barren in its silence when the clock struck eight. Kozmotis returned his attention back onto the supposed boy. He had suspected of the boy to be a fearling several times over the duration of their conversation. Yet when he asked about this 'Jack Frost,' which he presumed to be the young man's name, there was a sadness that adorned the boy's features that seemed unfitting and incapable of spreading on any heinous creature's face. Rather, it only confirmed what the boy wasn't.

"And because of that," Kozmotis shifted his weight as he continued, causing the sword's scabbard hooked onto his hip to brush against his leg, "I would actually prefer that you didn't stay out here alone. If you need a place to lodge in, I can take you to where my fellow soldiers and I have garrisoned."

"Geez, you're really not going to let this go, are you?" Jack chortled, which remained ineffective against his growing, troubled mind. He couldn't waste his time when there were fearlings all about. E_specially_ if Pitch was out there. He needed to find one of the guardians. He'd even settle for the kangaroo if he had to.

But the officer shook his head with a stern resolution, and Jack knew that this man was determined to keep him from stepping into the ravenous maws of the abyssal shadows. Jack was touched, really, but it was weird being fed all this foreign concern. Sure, he had his fair share of doting North and Tooth, but Kozmotis was a new person entirely. A living adult that could _see_ him.

But, this kindness and worry-Jack wouldn't be surprised if it was generated simply because the officer had a 'duty' to fulfill. The morose thought sagged his secret relishing of the subject that he had found his 'discomfort' to.

Finding no path out of the man's persistent insistence, Jack finally resigned. He could sneak out later. After all, fearlings really weren't anything new by now, and he's dealt with them before. He was more than capable of defending himself. Or so he believed.

Jack mocked a salute.

"Fine, Mr. Army-Man, sir."

"If you must," Kozmotis mused begrudgingly as he turned towards whence he came, a gloomy obscurity mashed with forestry and shadows, "Pitch is just as good a name as any other."

* * *

**Author's Notes.  
(Edits go down in chronological order from past to present.)**

**Edit: **Suggestions are still welcomed but I've actually garnered a general direction I wish to go. Cheers! :D Half of this chapter is written purely out of delirium ergo I will be editing this bastard later, but what are your thoughts so far? It's a crappy introduction, admittedly, but I _will_fix it. I swear!

**Edit: **Thank you kindly, A-List Goddess for beta-reading! You were a wonderful help!

**Edit: **Just re-read the chapter. Uhm. I think I'm blind. Quickly! I must edit half-heartedly!  
Regardless, I've finished the next chapter and A-List Goddess is reviewing it as we speak. Critique and review to feed this lonesome soul of whom which thirsts to make this fiction more bearable.


	2. Where am I?

_"Pitch is just as good a name as any other."_

The otherwise good-humored words impacted Jack like a bullet. Loud and inconceivable to a cruel point that silenced all the blithe fun and games. Muscles fraught with tension became paralyzed in sheer horror and Jack was reduced to a gaping stare.

The good officer did not take notice and instead continued to step further away from the moonlight. Just before he was entirely engulfed by the darkness, Kozmotis detached an old-fashioned lantern from the weathered leather belt that wrapped comfortably around his waist. He twisted his neck to glance at the boy lingering behind as he lighted the mechanism with a match conjured from another pocket. His movements required no supervision of their owner's eyes for they had memorized this habitual repertoire long ago, when the wars had first begun and when he had still been at his daughter's side.

"Are you coming?" Kozmotis asked "It would be best if we do not delay any longer than we've already have."

Jack obliged forward, now blank and stiff, and Kozmotis flicked the match out. Its dying embers shriveled into the frost that crunched beneath the carefully treading feet.

The light struggled vainly against the surrounding shroud. The flame would tremble in and out of existence on its withering wick, and the voracious darkness would lunge forward only to recoil back by the light's sudden return. Although abated, the shadows still held a cursed superiority and would cluster about the two beings regardless. It was suffocating.

Up and down the uneven terrain they tentatively traversed. From snickering ferns that furled underneath either wind or creature to bulky roots and clawing, outstretched branches.

Jack was surprised how the General was able to still navigate back to the town. But then again, Jack thought as he critically inspected Pitch's armor-clad back, that wasn't really surprising for the King of Nightmares. Like the stifling black slithering around them, questions smothered Jack's mind as he followed his guide over and under the reaches of prickling brambles and gargantuan tendrils of roots.

Could this really be the infamous boogieman Pitch? Jack's eyes wandered back onto the pinkish coloration that was highlighted by their pitiful light source. He was too human. Too, Jack's thoughts recalled their conversation earlier, _nice_. Yet the facial structure reflected his memories of the malicious nightmare-man all too clearly. All that had been missing when Jack had first observed Kozmotis was the vehemence and writhing belligerence.

Was Pitch some evil twin of this guy?

But something told him that this was indeed Pitch, the man who spread horror everywhere and manifested in all grotesque macabre. (Maybe North's 'stomach' feelings were finally rubbin' off on him. Psh, yeah right.) He shuddered.

Kozmotis misinterpreted this entirely, and that weird worry that just didn't match that face returned, "We aren't too far from the town, lad."

Jack nodded, lips sewn shut. He didn't want to indulge in Pitch's mind trick any further than he had to. It had to be a mind-trick, right? For all he's known Pitch, Pitch was always conceiving some stupid trap and toying with minds. That's what he was. That's what fear was. Some blasted thing that just kept playing with unsuspecting minds.

Just before Jack had been knocked out, one of the Nightmares must have galloped through him when they were chasing after the boogieman. Pitch wasn't done yet. He was probably down in his hole of a lair and fabricating this reality while Jack was in a comatose state. Right?

His eyes sharpened and glared at Pitch's unsuspecting back which was blackened now by the absence of light. He could take him out now. His staff throbbed in his grip with a sudden surging magic. But. But what _if_ this wasn't Pitch? And if he really was in a nightmare? Nothing bad has happened yet and even if he did strike this Pitch down, wouldn't this supposedly hellish dream conjure up another one?

Kozmotis stumbled a bit as he blundered on a well-concealed tree root. Jack felt no sympathy. Well, maybe a pang of amusement 'cause this was Pitch they were talking about here. Stumbling. This guy had a pride thing going on with his 'suaveness.'

The best course of action, Jack thought, would be to play this game as best as he could and retaliate before something went wrong. He would escape later tonight and find the rest of the guardians. Nightmare or not, if Jack was going to have any control of his dreams (He _was_ in a dream, right?), he was going to at least have his friends in them.

Wariness returned with a plague-like vengeance as Jack and Kozmotis weaved themselves through the forest's tangled roots and reaching floral arrangements. However, both felt this for two completely different reasons. One caught up in an entanglement of doubts and suspicion for their companion. The other, hand almost glued to the broadsword on his hip, cautious of the monsters that might dare to snatch either of them up.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

The trip, although Jack might have argued otherwise, was not long in Kozmotis's opinion. Once they arrived to the fringe of the forest's end, Kozmotis blew out the candle light. He felt Jack freeze beside him. The distrust brimming from the boy struck a despair into his own heart. The war had stolen much and Jack was still young. Young enough to carry a childish air about him that reminded Kozmotis of his own child. It only consoled him that as long as the fight was here, the fearlings weren't near where she resided.

He snagged the lantern back onto his belt and led the boy to the threshold of the town where the dirt paths and trees ended and the houses, cabins, and streets paved with stone began.

"We're here," Kozmotis whispered and gesticulated to the alehouse.

It was a quaint thing standing on a sturdy stone foundation and composed of rotting wood that had seen its fair share of decaying erosion. Large wedges of light shone through its cavernous windows. So great was its length and fervor that it crawled across the cobblestone streets and highlighted the walls of opposite building whose lifeless cadence contrasted from its invading companion. In its stead was darkness and only that. But Kozmotis knew better—there was a family residing in there, fearful and waiting.

A family that was much like his own.

Kozmotis suppressed an oncoming sigh. "Pardon the location."

"Nah, it's all good." Jack's impish grin returned. But there was something different about it. Something a little forced. Kozmotis frowned as he ambled towards the lively alehouse. Had he not known better, he would have thought it to be the only remnant of life in this town consumed with terror.

His frown deepened upon opening the door. He was greeted with bleary cheers and lucid salutes, a discord combination of a drunken stupor and sober clarity.

The capacious room's ceilings hung high straddled with chandeliers that might have once looked elegant and exempted from the rust acquisition. Hallways studded its walls, leading to a corridor network that headed to kitchens, rooms, and the rest of the inn. Within the enclosure, where the colloqial congregation remained active, were three long wooden tables that split the space into thirds.

Stuffed between these islands of wood and food was a bustling ocean made of late-night waitresses whose fatigue riddled them as dark circles underneath their eyes and idle men who bore no sense of individuality in their indistinguishable and ambiguous soldier uniforms. The sea of men swayed back and fro, drunkish fiddles jostling the worried and the worried irking the drunk.

"Welcome back, General Pitchiner!" Echoed the general salutation. Too busy were they with themselves that they did not observe Kozmotis's companion.

One of the men halted in their brutish dancing, distinguished from the rest simply by the golden embroidery strung across the gray fabric. and leisurely sauntered over to Kozmotis. His grin was all but inebriated and his clumsy gait did nothing to argue against it.

"Back already, Pitch?"

Kozmotis's unimpressed scowl partnered up with an irritated twitch of his brow. Something in there was a little too _mocking_.

"I found someone wandering around without lodgings," Kozmotis replied curtly. His sentiments towards the nickname were mixed. Rather, he didn't like being called it at all unless it was his curious daughter who was at an age where his name was a bit too complicated for her to pronounce. It was with carefully-measured reluctance that he allowed Jack to refer to him as Pitch in the first place.

Jack stepped forwards, almost timidly like a child anticipating a disappointment, into the light whilst picking at the imperfections on his staff. Had it not so readily contradicted the boastful humor the boy had displayed earlier, Kozmotis would have doubted the same amusement he felt then would have been aroused. The way the boy jumped when his colleague looked at him and shaped a silent 'O' with his mouth provoked a questioning brow to raise, but he said nothing more.

He waved to the dust-laden grandfather clock stuffed in the corner nearby. "Besides, my shift was over a while ago."

"Oh, taking a bit o' mi shift for me? I'm flattered, Pitch, I really am." The man let loose a gruff cackle which was crass to its very, brittle bark. That grin was a bit too wide for Pitch's liking. Besides him, he heard a muffled snicker.

"You really shouldn't drink before a patrol, Officer Levi," Kozmotis gingerly pushed the drunken man's shoulder to the side as he entered into the fray. His voice was tempered with a sadness of a man witnessing a comrade's degradation.

"You've got a respect to keep among your soldiers." He paused, a bit of banter returning that was strung in with a serious reprimand, "In fact, I may have to request someone else to fill in your shift with the way you're holding up."

Officer Levi rolled his eyes and took another swig of the bottle he held. Some drops escaped the smooth rim and splattered unceremoniously against the surrounding soldiers who shifted either in contemptible disdain or the same drunken enthusiasm. "Oh, yer too kind."

Kozmotis ignored the man's sneer and locked his eyes with another passing soldier who quickly caught on. He tilted his head towards the still gaping door and the man sharply nodded, saluted, and hurriedly edged his way through the crowd towards the directed destination. Just as Sanders was about to recede back into the body of soldiers, Kozmotis spoke up.

"You're on the next shift, Levi. Sober up until then."

"Bah." The man threw a dismissive arm.

The General shook his head and strode into one of the corridors that sharply turned away from the main room. Jack trailed after him, bare feet (a fact that Kozmotis picked up just now) padding against the warm hardwood floor. He would have to remember to get shoes for the lad later.

"Pardon," He repeated sheepishly, "Levi. He _is_ a good man and someone to trust when in the brunt of the battlefield." His eyes gazed wavered into the distance, reaching into some obscure fragmented memory. "But we have seen many things. He maybe more than the rest."

Kozmotis shook his head again, a reflex more out of a need to keep himself awake and rid himself of his own dismay rather than disappointment or disapproval.

The sound of two pairs of feet tapped rhythmically yet lonesomely in the uninhabited hallways, accompanied only by the dim droning orchestra of wafting snores.

"It's... fine."

Kozmotis glanced at Jack upon hearing the uncertainty. He still seemed anxious (shocked?) after the encounter with Levi although Kozmotis really couldn't fathom why. Levi was well-built but not beastly so and his mannerisms hadn't been too rambunctious as they could grow into being. Jack cleared his throat. "Yeah, no. It's fine."

They stopped at one of the many doors that decorated the hallway's walls. Drilled onto its tight timber skin was the metallic number '12.'

"You don't seem fine," Kozmotis commented, "A bit tired?"

He fished out a bronze key from one of his pockets and unlocked the door as Jack's face twisted into indigence.

"Me? Nah," Jack drawled, "You? I would think so."

The door's bronze hinges squeaked in protest as its pushed open and the duo entered.

"Oh? And what makes us so different?" Kozmotis laughed as he removed himself of his sword and lantern. He leaned the sword against the nightstand and left the lantern on top of its smooth surface.

"A lot of things," Jack muttered. Kozmotis's brows knitted together and was garnished by a thoughtful frown. As well as Jack could be in his humor, it seemed that there would always be a bit of a shield around him that the General would not breach. Jack was wary, too wary for someone his age.

"I suppose hair would be a difference," Kozmotis offered, "Age as well and your impishness."

He slipped behind the work desk, its once sleek surface blemished by the years of abuse from all sorts of owners, and turned on the gas-powered lamp that had been provided. The soft light flickered audibly, once, twice, and then again in its struggle to retain its newborn life. It seemed everything that possessed any means to illuminate these nights were corrupted by the bitter darkness. It was a dismal sign that the fearlings were approaching. A fact which did much to squirm haughtily within his men's apprehensive minds.

"Impish? You think _I'm_ impish?" Jack smirked, "Well, I guess I gotta agree with the age thing. You're pretty old. Maybe getting a little senile. Can't keep up with all my _greatly_ mischief." Jack settled onto the single bed that was there, wrapping his fingers around its cotton texture and waving his staff about in the air with his other hand, his eyes alight with guarded frivolity.

"I don't think I'm that out of it yet," Kozmotis countered, hummed contemplatively as though he was considering it.

Not really.

"And I think I'm handling myself pretty good here, Jack."

The boy tensed up at the mention of his name. He didn't reply at first, but when he did, it was stained with a dribble of distrust.

"Maybe," Jack relented. He looked down at the bed, "Uh, so, where are am I gonna sleep? I only see one bed."

"That's for you," Kozmotis returned with an off-handed gesture as he plucked out a leather-bound pocket journal from one of the desk's many dilapidated drawers.

"And what about you? On the floor?" Jack joked, crossing his legs. He drew his momentum backwards and allowed gravity to do the rest. The bed's springs squeaked at the sudden pressure and continued to do so as they hastily recalibrated themselves to welcome the heightened gravity.

Kozmotis's shoulder rolled, "If I must. Some divisions aren't as lucky to be stationed in a town," He sank into the chair's cushions, eyes averting to another direction as he plucked at the journal's binding.

"Oh."

"Well," Kozmotis breathed, "Why don't you go to sleep?"

"What about you?" Came the dubious reply, but Kozmotis could see that the boy was sagging into the bed with eyes drawn shut.

"I'll be here."

Truthfully, Kozmotis couldn't sleep. He worried and thought, at times, too much to the point where the elusive realm of dreams had no other choice but to deny him. He gingerly opened the locket that had been safely tucked away in his uniform, his gaze loving.

"What's that?"

The General started, snapping the locket shut and stowing it away in its rightful place in a single, swift movement.

"I-ah-nothing." His eyelids drew themselves together as he repeated the word 'nothing' again. "I thought you were going to sleep?"

"Yeah, yeah," Jack intoned stubbornly. He tossed aside the sheets and gathered himself underneath them.

"With the staff?"

"It's," Jack struggled with the words, hunching over the object in question.

"Important to me," He finished uncertain.  
Kozmotis didn't say anything else. Instead, he nodded in understanding and took the ink well and pen that had been stowed away in another drawer and begun to write.

Family, friends, his men—these were all common sources of worry. And now, his gaze wandered up to the teen's form that nestled in the bed before him, there was Jack. An oddity found in the forest when fearlings had been reported to be approaching. Old suspicions stirred, but they trifled with the memory of the remorseful look that had embellished the teen's face earlier.

And so he wrote his words conveying his concerns and his wist and the wit that had been shared that day; his mind but a restless curse like ebony ink bleeding onto snow white parchment.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Jack clutched his staff closer to his chest as he listened to the gentle scratches of Pitch's pen from underneath the blankets. The weak illumination from the lamp ebbed through the cotton barrier and Jack found himself to be grateful for its comforting presence. He didn't want to know what would happen to him if the light had been off with the Nightmare King right there. Which begged the question: Why hadn't Pitch allowed himself the benefit of the terror and swallowed the room with pious darkness?

From what Jack could see, there were two ways things could go down. One, Pitch revealed himself and they would battle it out. Two, Pitch continued this twisted charade and went to sleep, allowing for a vulnerable opportunity for escape. Of course, the latter would probably end up like the first and with Pitch parading in his successful deceit.

And so, Jack waited for what the Nightmare King would do and which havoc would or would not ensue.

And he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And the conception of time seemed to have vanished, its tormenting march flavored with Jack's frightful impatience and that incessant scribbling. It left over a thick residue that materialized as thoughts that caroused and flaunted about in his idle mind. Like the officer, Jack was burdened and besieged by curious concerns.

When they had first entered the pub, he had expected its inhabitants to dismiss his presence simply because they couldn't be able to see him. Jack had expected Pitch to end up looking a bit crazed when he referred to Jack to his peers. In hindsight, he didn't know why he would think such absurd thoughts. Pitch's pride obviously wouldn't allow himself to appear awkwardly amongst a crowd in his own nightmare.

But the way that everyone that hadn't been caught up in their own bickers or drinks looked; the way they had _looked_ and _saw_ him. Jack wasn't used to there being so many people (All adults!) all staring at him. They had eyed his strange clothes, whispered about his hair, and scrunched their brows at his bare feet. Jack couldn't remember a time where he had felt so self-conscious. Children were usually so accepting, and these adults just _judged_ so sternly with their established prejudices.

Was Pitch mocking his newly found believers? Jack barely refrained from snorting.

And then there was this weird Pitch. What was his name? Koz—Kozmotis Pitchiner? What kind of name was that? Jack exhaled into the bedding, anxious palms re-curling themselves around the staff's shaft. Jack hadn't been aware that the boogeyman was capable of even looking that, well, normal and sincerely kind.

Jack's thoughts reached back to the pendant that the General had been looking down at. He hadn't been aware that Pitch was capable of making such a loving face either. It was downright weird and kind of freaky. When did Pitch level up in his acting skill? Sheesh. Besides, what was it that he had been looking at anyway?

He stilled upon hearing shifting and an accompanying sigh from his captor.

Whatever it was, Jack decided, it was probably something really important.

Maybe a back-up source of power for this fiendish nightmare while Pitch was still recovering. Jack wasn't one to be so paranoid, but this wasn't his home turf anymore, and he just couldn't help but be wary with his current predicament.

Moreover, what was with Pitch suggesting Jack to go to sleep? Wasn't he already in a dream/nightmare? How did someone go to sleep when they were already sleeping? The king must have been hit one too many times to have let that slip his mind.

But somehow, in the midst of all this waiting, Jack managed to doze off anyways. He was only sharply made aware of this, almost jolting as it occurred, by three, distinctly hurried staccatos tapping against the door. Jack heard the chair skid against the carpet which matched the knocks in terms of haste. The door creaked open and closed. Pitch was no longer in the room.

A breath that Jack hadn't known that he had been holding sagged into the air as he promptly wiggled out of the bed with his staff. Bare feet make contact with the carpet floor with a small, muffled 'plop.' The boards that made the carpet's underbelly creaked conspicuously, but judging by the hushed and brisk conversation that shuddered through the thin door, Jack saw no reason to pause and continued his way toward the window behind the desk that the general had previously been established at.

Blue optics eyed the leather binding as Jack's hands worked at the window's latches, a lavishing curiosity that tempted and beckoned him backwards. What _would_ a notorious King place in his _diary_? Jack could hear Pitch's demented, irked snarl roaring mutinously in his mind and Jack sustained his oppressed chuckle with a wincing motion as the window released its air suction on its sill.

Just as Jack was about to decide for this ultimatum, the exchange of words outside paused and he decided that it would be better to be without it rather than have a tactically-superior Pitch barge in whilst Jack was looking through whatever love notes that might have been inside the thing.

He slid himself and his staff through the window's meager opening, the darkness it allowed through behaving like the gaping maws of a ravenous creature. And into its insides did Jack venture, its sharpened teeth like the ebony tendrils that consumed Jack's figure as he detached himself from the artificial light.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

"Levi," Kozmotis gently closed the door behind him and turned to the aforementioned officer who staggered into a sloppy salute.

"Pitch." The man mirrored mockingly.

Kozmotis rolled his eyes as the man dropped his salute into a nonchalant, slouching posture. Yet as eased as Levi attempted to portray himself, Kozmotis glimpsed a ghosting serious strand that hid itself within the lower-ranking officer. It was in simple things, really. The way Levi twitched slightly when Kozmotis didn't respond instantly. An awkward shuffle when he shifted his weight. Hands that were curled into fists within worn pockets.

The General's brows furrowed.

"What did you find?"

"Darkness," Levi growled. His eyes glinted in the meager lighting, and Kozmotis accepted this with as much consideration in an understanding nod. He accepted this because the single term held so much more weight than it ever would in the far future. A future where light's presence was far stronger than one in this time could ever fathom; a future which these soldiers now fought for.  
"The fearlings are gettin' closer, Pitch. My lantern started dimmin' pretty severely while I was out. Nothin' like before; they're closer than we first thought."  
"Did it take it out completely?" Kozmotis questioned, arms folded behind him.

"No, no," Levi waved his head in the negative. It was a slow movement, but his eyes shone with a clarity that defied their earlier stupor. "Bastards didn't take it out completely, so they're still a good distance away," His tone dropped, "But they're close. Real close."

"They will most likely be here by the morrow." Kozmotis grimly pondered aloud. Gloved fingers dig into the cotton fabric of their counterpart arm's uniform into a perfect symmetry of his disturbance. They would need to evacuate the civilians immediately and forgo defensive procedures.

"Most likely," Levi agreed.

Kozmotis sighed and brought a hand through his black hair. Gods help us, he thought as he looked up to the ceiling. Indeed, the candles drilled to the walls failed to fight off the clinging shadows, and those shadows seemed to guffaw at this with their sudden lurching when the flames cringed weakly to a movement of air.

"They'll be comin' through the forest," Levi spat, fumbling with the lantern looped onto his belt, "My light was weakest when I neared the blasted thing. They'll be using the dark overcast and trees as shields. We should burn the it."

"You know we can't. The townspeople would have no wood for the winter and no town if it came down here." Kozmotis reminded, but Levi shook his head.

"It would be for the better good, Pitch. Keep them from havin' the advantage. Those things can be rebuilt. These townsfolk can heal. But the one thing that can't be rebuilt-the one thing we can't heal are lives; dead lives."  
The General fell into a contemplative silence, but it is not stunned. It is saturated with a regretful remorse and it is shared, shared because both of them have learned of the burdensome meaning to the last sentence. The fact that Kozmotis still possessed his family consolidated him, and acted like an industrial adhesive that kept him from falling asunder into a disorderly conduct.

"You know I would prefer to avoid that."  
"And I would prefer to avoid deaths."

"You know what I mean, Levi," Kozmotis barked. Rarely did he lose his patience, but his mind was already frayed at its fringes to sleep deprivation and stress.

"Yet it's still up to you."

The pregnant silence returned between them and it weighed visibly on the General's drooping shoulders. Levi's unnerving gaze never left the General's troubled ones that crumpled away.

"No," Kozmotis asserted finally and his companion's displeasured glare sharpened, "We're not setting the forests on fire. Inform the rest of the barracks to prepare themselves instead. After they've readied themselves for the oncoming morn, I want you to have them to collect and escort the civilians to Townhall. Take defensive procedures and barricade the key tactical positions we discussed earlier."

"O' course." Levi seethed. He pivoted on his heel around and the tension that had wounded itself in the General loosened, but the retreating man halted in mid-revolution as though a sudden thought had crashed upon him.

"By the way," He started, suspicion drenching his dripping words, "Where did you find that boy? Who would be out so late with the fearlings so close?"

Kozmotis's shoulders became rigid, a cold sensation pumping through the branching veins that coursed through his condensed muscles. He found himself not wishing to answer, but by an established obligation, doing so, with a struggling conviction, anyway.

"In the forest's direction."

He regretted it immediately.

"Are you mad?!" Calloused hands molded over his shoulders and shook their accursed rigidity with a violent ferocity.

"I would like to think that I am securely sane," Kozmotis replied as the jerking came to a cease.

"The boy could be a fearling! A spy!" Levi cried. Kozmotis shrugged. It was an awkward motion brought out upon by a distressed wish to free his shoulders from Levi's tight grip rather than dismissive confusion. Alas interpretations cannot be necessarily controlled and this further sent the raving man into a ferocious bristle.

"He's not," Kozmotis assured. Although, now that there was a vigor attached to this uncertainty, Kozmotis now doubted his own memories of which he had measured the sincerity of the boy's anguish. But surely, no such demon could imitate something so authentic, so broken, and so human as that.

"An' how can ye be sure o' that'?!" Levi shouted lividly, as though shredding Kozmotis's doubts from their private confines of the mind and into the open air. Levi's hands waved about wildly as he begun pacing apoplectically. The General winced. Hopefully Jack hadn't awoken to the outraged outcries.

"There's something about him, Levi." Kozmotis insisted, remembering their interaction, "Something full of life that the war hasn't taken yet. Something still childish yet fearless. Have you ever seen a fearling like him?"

"Nay, I haven't," Levi conceded, but it isn't to admittance that he spoke, but of further enrage, "But neither has the soldiers who were struck down by their little tricks!" Narrowed auburn eyes lock and reflect off green optics.

Kozmotis had heard many stories of soldiers succumbing into fearling tricks, killed and left shriveled in a vegetative state, if not completely overtaken and possessed by the heinous creatures. They were amorphous things that could imitate anything and this versatility only served to make them an even deadlier opponent to take caution of. Yet. The young man couldn't be. Could he?

"You're making a grave mistake, Pitch," Levi growled. It unsettled Kozmotis to hear such a belligerence from his fellow officer.

"And I will take responsibility for that mistake when it happens."

He wanted to be certain that there wouldn't be a mistake in the first place, but could anyone really afford to be during these times?

"You're too nice for that, Pitch." Levi was avidly rabid now, "We both know it. Hell, this entire division knows it! You'll get attached to that boy and then he'll kill you before you even know what happened."

As hard as the boy's eyes had looked with its aged quality, Kozmotis had not seen anything that suggested a killer and Kozmotis had seen many a kind in the war. There were those whose eyes solemnly wallowed in their festering conviction and guilt. There were those who lost their purpose and mind somewhere amidst the blinding pandemonium of bloodshed and death, and killed like puppetted vacant husks that were maintained by some foreign, supernatural force. And then, there were those who basked in the ruthless carnage they brought upon and were among those who grinned while they struck down their enemies simply out of whim to taste the fleetingness of their enemies' existences.

The boy looked like none of them.

He fell too easily into the crowd of newly enlisted soldiers that were fresh out of the shipments.

Jack had witnessed death, but did not cause them.

"Then it will be my life that gets taken, Levi," Of all the fearling Kozmotis had slain, he would rather not add a child to his list, "And even then, this is all on the basis that he is a fearling in the first place."

"You're making a mistake, Pitch." Levi repeated darkly.

"Levi, please," Kozmotis implored, "Trust me on this one."

"There's not a lot o' that anymore. Not in these times, Pitch," The man warned, "You've only taken to 'im 'cause he's still a kid in these wars and you only got that soft spot 'cause o' yer daughter. If I were you, I'd put the boy in the dungeon to rot until he reveals himself."

The officer brusquely completed his unfinished pivot and stormed off in the opposite direction to begrudgingly tend to his orders. His pounding steps clamored against the bare walls as though they wished to tear them down through their sheer fuming might. Kozmotis watched his retreating form and did not move until the man rounded the corner.

Kozmotis pressed his palms against his face. It couldn't be, could it? The boy couldn't be a fearling. And regardless of his daughter, Kozmotis would think that he wouldn't be so harsh to any child. Yet, the more Kozmotis lingered on it, the more the beastly seedling of doubt was decadently fed and so did it also grow like a malignant tumor; obscure and positioned precariously to be taken advantage of in any moment of strife.

He couldn't blame Levi for his bitterness and paranoia. Many soldiers suffered from it and Levi was not an exception. They were away from home and aching from all sorts of physical and mental traumas. Levi and he had been mutual friends in their war-faring, but as of recent, Levi had taken to more aggressive tactics and often questioned Kozmotis's methods to where it insinuated incompetence.

The General heaved a tumbling sigh and dropped his hand from where it pressed against his head. With this hand he twisted the door's handle. Hopefully, Jack was a heavy sleeper.

Yet as the door creaked open again, there was something that was terribly wrong and it lodged itself deep into the General's stomach. It only thrashed further into life upon its alarming confirmation by the frigidly crisp, winter air that bit into Kozmotis's exposed skin.

The open window returned his gaze with a taunting, gaping ebony mouth. The bed's sheets, once inhabited, were crinkled emptily flat on the mattress.

Jack was gone.

Kozmotis rounded and slammed the door behind him, its screechy hinges washed away by the worry that had now begun a blanketing acquisition across his mind.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

"What happened to the wind?" Jack grouched with crossed arms. He glared at the shadowy threshold of the mountainous forest which did little to pierce its unwelcoming fortitude. Beneath his feet, replicating his rankling aggravation, grassy wisps were consumed underneath growing layers of icy crystals. "It's totally dead here."

No wind meant no crazy wind-riding; No crazy wind-riding meant no easy transportation. Jack sighed.

"I guess this means I have to do this the old way."

He hummed and placed a hand on his chin, "But where to go..."

Blue optics dragged themselves back up to the moon, but of course, like always, it remained uncommunicative. Not like it wouldn't have done so anyway, with this being a nightmare. Pitch held power in this crooked domain and it would seem unlikely that anything that could provide Jack any kind of hope would respond.

I do have my powers, Jack thought as he twirled his staff absentmindedly, so I guess all hope isn't completely lost. Maybe Pitch didn't want everything to be _too_ one-sided. Jack snorted and snapped his staff erect in his hands.

"Back to the clearing?" He suggested to no one in particular. Maybe there was a significance as to where he had awoken like the lake, some memory that Jack had yet to find. Jack's skeptic lip curled to this disbelievingly. Like Pitch would give him and advantage in the first place. But it was a lead. A weak lead, but a lead nonetheless. He didn't want to go through all of that bramble with so much-

"Ah, there we go," Jack exclaimed as a glow begun to engulf the rivets of his staff. Its white illumination was bright and unwavering like the moon's own aura, but stronger and tangible unlike Pitch's lantern. Jack brought his staff against a section of the underbrush of the forest, and to his delight, found all the dark contours highlighted explicitly and unconcealed as it had been before. Well, that was a problem solved.

Navigation this time around was not as difficult nor so blind as it had been the first time. Shadows cringed away from Jack's light and he was able to recognize things for what they were; plant-life. None of that same discomforting paranoia from before. No Pitch to worry about. Nada. Nothing.

In fact, finding the clearing was much easier than what Jack had expected it to be. In a short term of 10-19 minutes, he was back in the moonlight-painted landscape he had first found himself in.

"Ha! Take that Kangaroo! I can totally find my way back to places." Jack boasted to himself, one arm akimbo and the other pressing his staff proudly to the ground. Yet as he observed his surroundings with keener, and non-bleary eyes, nothing screamed extraordinary to him. In fact, it was an unpleasant, opposite experience. Things were screaming _ordinary_ at him in an annoyingly high-pitch and induced yet another mind-splitting headache. Jack crushed his lids closed as the sharp, piercing sensation thundered back into life in his head and groaned.

Okay, so this lead was out. Now what?

Jack fell back onto the patch of snow that had surprisingly remained in his absence and propped himself against his staff.

His first priority should be to find one of the guardians, but this was only if they existed in his dreams at all. His eyes zoom onto a twig, his concentration orientating more on his annoyed thoughts. Otherwise, his priority should be to distance himself as far as possible from that weird human Pitch until Jack was feeling stronger, assuming that that was what the real Pitch manifested in.

Jack chewed on his lower lip. Of course, he needed answers too and Pitch was the only one who had them at the moment. Azure pools disappear into Jack's eyelids as his head lowered and pressed against his staff's familiar interwoven consistency. He released a slow breath, but it did not come out as clouds as it would have if he were human.

Suddenly, something sinister slithered and hissed through the shadows behind Jack.

The way it deliberately commanded the skittering crawling across Jack's spine and rose the goose bumps against his skin demanded nothing less of an offensive maneuver.

And Jack obliged. He swung his staff in a wide arc as he twisted around, slinging slivers of ice as he did. Gleaming icicles thudded dully into the thick bark of the surrounding trees. Jack's muscles jumbled together as they readied for another assault. The dangerous glint in his eyes were diluted by his surprise and dumbfound expression of discovering nothing.

A sickly sweet chuckle whispered from the forest's dark depths. Jack's eyes narrowed.

_Fearlings._

Jack had been ready for Pitch to finally reveal himself at last. Ready for the theatrics and for Pitch to step into the clearing with slow clapping and some self-aggrandizement speech. He had been ready for _Pitch_ and sand-Nightmares. He had been ready; but for the wrong thing entirely.

The shadows of the trees seemed to expand and shiver into life. Ebony tendrils tangibly glided across the ground, black things across white snow that surrounded Jack's startled figure. They were lethargic and prowled around him with a lazy curiosity, twitching here and twitching there in its regard and scrutiny.

Jack returned the treatment, but without so much curiosity and more so with loathing. His eyes flashed between each convulsing tendril and his staff followed in a jerking motion directed between this shadowy stem and that.

This quiet exchange continued until Jack, headache throbbing in its full glory and saturated with anxious impatience, stamped the end of his staff onto the snow-covered ground. He wouldn't wait like a sitting duck for Pitch to prepare his beauty makeup for this wicked debut.

Jagged ice explode forth from the snow upward and into the shadows, skewering the tendrils from where they lurked. Those that had been caught in Jack's attack stilled and almost sagged. They materialized into humanoid forms onto the icy lances, black liquid splashing from their wounded sides and spilling further onto the ashen snow. Jack grimaced and shrank back from the gruesome display. He didn't recall them doing that before.

A crescendo of laughter arose around him and Jack's hackles followed. A black mass oozed forward from the darkness, its aqueous form absorbing the moon's fragile light. It seemed to wheeze contently in its absorption as a wave rippled throughout its monstrous form.

"What-"

The morbid thing spilled further into the clearing. From it, tendrils formed again, shadowy smoke wisping from these newly generated limbs. And from these spindly tendrils, faces took form. Many of them were mutilated and grotesquely twisted in pain and silent screams and they continued to mutate, proudly cycling between a diverse collection before Jack's horrified eyes.

They mimicked several fearful cries, which were all tinged with an overlay of ominous laughter that seemed omnipresent for it echoed chidingly everywhere.

All at once, Jack's breath was caught in his throat and something sharp gripped at Jack's heart;

It was fear.

And at that very moment, everything came to a stand still. The cries ceased, and so did the laughter. The faces whose eyes had been wound shut in their petrified emotion suddenly snapped open and they all glared greedily at Jack's quivering form. They had sensed the fear, and they grinned gluttonously, twisting a sickening nausea within Jack's stomach.

Pitch's nightmares were refined to a point. They possessed a sort of centralization. A debatably sane face to put with the horror that they provided. But these, these fearlings held no true master. They were barbarically animalistic, and they wanted nothing more, from what Jack could see in their primal, wild eyes, to shred him apart and devour his being.

Jack wanted to run, yet his legs strained under this command for they were paralyzed under an arduous terror. And the longer he stayed, the more the hunger swelled in the creature.

It all happened in a single instant.

The faces snapped after Jack who jumped off his staff. They crashed into each other, but those who had not been caught in their comrades' blunder shot into the air, their ghastly cries wild and exulting. Jack launched another set of ice projectiles which hit their mark. They dug into the inky flesh and burst forth from the ruptured vessels was sable blood that splattered across the scenery. The sentiment being shrieked as the stricken tendrils deflated down to the ground and emitted a strangled snarl.

Jack cursed the absence of wind again as he landed on a clean plot of land a few yards away from the blob which surged forward. For such a gargantuan thing, Jack would have never thought something could move so fast.

Another strand lashed forward and Jack dodged to the side. Before it could readjust and lunge again, he slammed his staff down upon it.

Crack.

It crumpled to the ground and no longer were there any movements.

The barter persisted like this for awhile longer. Garbled growls and screeches cut the air as the glob avariciously sent furious fearling-tendril after fearling-tendril. Deranged faces seared after Jack, and as Jack retaliated dodging this way and that, the main manifestation shrank. But this was also accompanied, hand-in-hand, with Jack's dwindling energy which drained as fatigue set in with each ice projectile and smashing of his staff.

But then the tactic changed.

As Jack leaped aside from one fearling, another blind-sided him. Air was forced out of his lungs as the creature bashed him against a tree, slowly spreading and bleeding onto Jack. Jack grimaced, struggling to poise his staff above his head. Accomplishing this endeavor, he smashed it down ferociously upon the artery that had connected itself onto him. It ruptured and melted off of him into another humanoid creature whose face melted back into the a black canvas.

Just as Jack recovered, another tendril surged from the side.

The force tore Jack's staff out of his hands, sending it skidding off to the snow aside, and Jack was thrown once again onto another tree by the fearling. His lungs screamed and burned from the oxygen that continued to be stolen from him. Like quicksand, the thing crawled across Jack's clothes and skin, consuming him like the nightmares had Sandy.

"Get OFF!" Jack shouted, a desperate cry as he flailed his limbs against the increasing pressure. Black spots, almost resembling the haunting monster that was gorging on his life, began to smear across his vision as it locked onto the moon's pitiful face. When it seemed that Jack's consciousness was fleeting and his strength had all been but consumed by the fearling that had invaded his systems, the suffocating force lifted. Jack collapsed onto the ground, hoarsely gasping and coughing (contradictory actions that his body knew not which to choose over for it was starved for air but sickened by the inky coarseness that had entered and pillaged Jack's vitals.)

"Jack! Jack! Can you here me?"

A cough. A wheeze. Then a splutter. Then a faint nod. In his disorientation, he had thought the panicked voice was North or Tooth; Maybe even a kind of deranged Bunny with the way the accent punctuated the words.

"I need you to listen to me very carefully, Jack."  
Another bleary nod as Jack struggled to raise himself from the ground. His limbs shook from the effort, buckled, and fell through, all the while burning cruelly in their exertion and unquenched thirst for air.

"I need you to stay awake for me, alright Jack? Stay awake and lean on that tree for me, Jack."

Kozmotis cursed as he held his black-stained broadsword in front of him, warily keeping an eye on the swathing mass of collective fearlings as he spoke. The fact that the fearlings were attacking Jack confirmed that the boy wasn't apart of them, but he was probably now suffering from massive internal organ damage.

Kozmotis swallowed, fearful for Jack's well-being. From the corner of his peripheral, he saw Jack obey and crawl against the tree he had been shoved into just moments before, eyes fluttering rapidly between consciousness and the deadly kingdom of sleep.

"Stay with me Jack!" Kozmotis steeled himself and commanded the dreadful words. It was an unfortunate order that he always wished to avoided for it wasn't often fulfilled by the participating party. The boy groaned and weakly uttered an 'Aye-aye, Captain North.'

At least the boy still retained his humor.

Kozmotis returned his focus onto the fearlings that now lurched curiously. Belligerence filmed over green eyes, intensifying their withering glare. It wasn't an elite group in particular. It was rather basic in its selective individuals but intricate from its combined fabrication. His brows came together into a hard 'v'. These were lower-classed fearlings-not known for their cunning but for their predictive irrationality. These were, he realized, scouts.

Kozmotis side-stepped backwards with a lean, a nasty strand lashing to where his head had once been. It disrupted the ground and in its wake left a crater against the world's muddy surface. He angled his sword and slashed through the offending fearling. It fell to the ground among the melted ice and its deceased comrades.

The lad fared well, the General thought as he estimated the massacre that had taken place, probably took out a good half.

Kozmotis braced his sword to another position, pebbles crunching underneath his weight as he adjusted his footwork to a light stance. The barrage of fearlings flung themselves at him with their ghoulish wails. The General stepped between them, his wrist rolling on their joints as he drove the blade through their darkling flesh. The corpses thudded onto the ground rhythmically as Kozmotis chiseled and delved his way forward with a firm resolve ringing through his sleep deprivation: Keep. Jack. Safe.

A fearling attempted to take him from the side. Emerald orbs flashed like the blade their owner controlled. He skewered the oncoming fearling and swung his sword out, tearing it from the fearling's severed head, and into its companion that had planned to flank from another direction. Kozmotis let loose a strained pant as he dislodged his weapon from the fearling and struck down another that had been lusting for vengeance, its death a crackling shriek cut abruptly short.

His gaze faltered between Jack's crippled body whose chest trembled weakly and the rest of the fearling mass. The collective sentience snatched the opportunity immediately.

Kozmotis reacted a bit too slowly. One of the fearlings, this one a projectile with its gleaming protrusions that were its arms and malicious face, cut through his left arm. Kozmotis hissed in the given pain, twisting himself appropriately to strike down the chortling creature as crimson budded across the cotton uniform and crept into the ebony that had long begun to saturate it.

There were but a few fearlings that remained and created the hideous unification that he now fought. The fearling individuals frothed against one another maliciously, an animosity reflecting the General's own.

"Begone or be slain!" Kozmotis yelled, nostrils flaring as he breathed to mollify the pain, as he poised his sword into a fraudulently idle position in front of him, set ready to snap alive into action if there were any signs of deceit.

The mass bubbled in response and did so for a good few seconds, perturbed and irate with the threat.  
"We _will_ be back," Their scathing voices finally spoke and slithered into each other, "Oh, _good_ General."

The remainder of the thing receded back into the undergrowth in the opposite direction of the town like a dark malevolent wave ebbing reproachfully back into the destructive ocean's calling.

And how well he knew this to be a legitimate threat. Kozmotis's skin peeled into a shiver at the menacing mentioning of his rank as he staggered over to Jack and sheathed his sword. He dropped to a keel.

"Are you still with me, Jack?" He asked not unkindly as he gathered the boy up into his arms, and grimaced as his injured arm pulsed at the gained weight. The blood pressed against Jack's blue garb and permeated even more profusely across the uniform at its use.

The ensuing moan was enough to satisfy Kozmotis but the worry did not relent. A few paces away, his eyes caught the highlighted contour of Jack's staff which looked just as battered as its owner. Jack's words echoed across his pained mind, and he limped through the mud and plucked it from its resting ground. His injured arm protested again when Kozmotis balanced the weight between the staff and the boy. Colorful affliction streaked across his lucidity, prompting an involuntary grunt from the General.

"Hang on, lad." He 'oomfed' as he adjusted Jack in his cradling arms again, "You're going to be fine."

The mumbled response went unheard for Kozmotis's own labored breathing stole much of his dimming attention. His vision tunneled as he stumbled with Jack back to the compromised safety of the town. Pain and apprehension pounded through and seemed to be the only thing that accompanied the officer in his strenuous traversal.

* * *

Author's Notes.

Hah, well, I think I was done with this six days ago. I didn't want to keep anyone waiting any longer (And to my own frivolous impatience), so I'm posting this chapter up right now. It is still being beta-read and thus will be subjected to edits. Furthermore, don't worry, Mr. Levi-bitcher-face-OC is just a plot device.

How long does it take to write four scenes? This person who hasn't written her own leisure fiction for 5 years needs to take a total of +15 hours! Haha, delirium and lack of details among the repetitious sentence structure is a galore to behold. Sidenote: So, uh, anyone else reminded of the Kid from Bastion with Jack Frost? No? Well, yeah, I wouldn't blame you. I mean, I connect Jack Frost with Jack Torrance from The Shining 'cause they share a name. And Jack Sparrow. 'Cause there's so many Jack's in the world.

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